Ravens of Winter
by HornetFreak
Summary: Esmerelda wanted nothing more than to travel Skyrim as a mercenary like her father. She craved adventure and excitement. How quickly her dreams become a reality when a beast out of legend destroys her home. Accompanied by a strange man with a shrouded past, Esmerelda sets out on a journey to build a life that her father would be proud of.


**Chapter 1: Children's Stories & Legends**

* * *

"Another one of the soldiers tried to convince me to join up with the Legion," Esmerelda called to her father, Ragnar, in the other room as she finished wiping down the bar.

The mountain of a Nord responded without looking up from his ledger. "And what was your reply?" His tone was dry as if he was only partially paying attention to her. His focus was mainly on his financial calculations for the next month.

"Well, of course, I told him that I wasn't interested," She removed her apron, now dirty from the previous night. "When will they learn to take 'no' for an answer? I swear, they're as stubborn as Nelles when I try to tell him he's had enough to drink."

She heard him chuckle. "They wouldn't be asking if you weren't so damned fine with a blade."

Esmerelda groaned. However, she knew he was right. She'd amassed a reputation around Helgen as an able fighter. It came from years of training. Ever since she was a girl, when she wasn't helping her father run the Laughing Bear, she'd spent every waking moment practicing in the ways of the sword and the shield. She had yet to see any real battle, outside of mock duels with father. Despite this, she was still the most adept civilian warrior in Helgen.

"I know that," she said. "Doesn't mean I enjoy their constant hounding, though."

As the inn fell silent, she looked around, taking in the sight of her whole world. Shadows from the firepit in the center of the room danced off the walls. Above the blaze, hung a large iron pot, the wondrous aroma of venison stew bringing forth feelings of comfort and safety. Doors lined the main room, leading to the many rented ones available. Here, she and Ragnar had built a stable life, one of peace and security. Most people in Skyrim could only hope to be so fortunate. The civil war had robbed most others of the chance of having a life such as this. However, Esmerelda wanted more.

She desired adventure, danger, to live up to her father's legacy. As a child, he told her wild tales of his travels around Tamriel. From the bowels of ancient crypts to the peaks of the Wrothgarian Mountains, he'd seen it all.

That drive was the main reason she began training under him. She intended to leave on the eve of her sixteenth birthday, perhaps to run off and join the Companions. However, that night, her mother had fallen deathly ill and passed in her sleep. Ragnar had been crushed, taking to drowning his sorrows in mead. Fearing what it would have done to him had she left, Esmerelda put her plans on hold and stayed to help run the inn.

That had been three years ago. Nowadays, Ragnar had come to terms with his grief. She had continued her training, even picking up a crossbow and discovering a hidden talent for it. As a result, she had grown into quite the markswoman.

Soldiers from the garrison would often visit the Laughing Bear and try to convince her of the benefits of joining up with the Imperial Legion. They'd tell her that she'd be traveling the world, making a difference, and defending the citizens of Tamriel. However, her answer was always simply a resounding, "Not interested." But, much to Esmerelda's chagrin, they were undeterred by her words.

"If only to rid myself of them, I might just pack up and leave town soon," she muttered, loudly enough for Ragnar to hear.

He strode out of his room, stretching his arms out above his head. For his age, he still looked remarkably fit and young. In terms of features, he and Esmerelda were quite similar. His long, golden blonde hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail. Stone-like muscles rippled up and down his body. His face was hard, worn, and weathered from decades of mercenary work, covering it was a matted and twisted beard. In contrast, crystal-blue eyes gazed out softly from their sockets, giving him a friendly and welcoming aura.

Ragnar walked behind the bar, retrieving a bottle of Honningbrew Mead for himself. "What a coincidence," he said with a slight laugh. "I was considering the same."

Esmerelda's brow shot up. "You were?"

"I was. Helgen has become too much of an Imperial town. It has lost the Nordic mirth and pride that once made it great."

She moved to the stewpot and stirred it with a long wooden ladle, causing a cloud of steam to billow forth from it. "Where would we go, if we were to leave Helgen?"

He stroked his beard contemplatively. Taking a swig of his sweet spirit, he suggested, "Perhaps Windhelm, or Kynesgrove. As a matter of fact, the whole of Eastmarch is quite tempting. The people there aren't afraid to speak their minds or honor mighty Talos as they are here. And, best of all, there would be no more Legionnaires calling on you."

"I'm convinced," she stated chipperly. "When should I begin packing my things?"

Ragnar downed the remainder of his mead. "Vilod the brewer has been inquiring about the inn. If she wishes to buy it from us, we could leave within the month."

Esmerelda smiled. However, on the inside, she was screaming with joy and excitement. If they moved to Eastmarch, she might have a chance at her life of adventure that she'd always dreamed of. Ulfric Stormcloak's hold was rife with caves and ruins to explore. And, if she ever felt particularly patriotic, she would be much happier about enlisting in his army than with the Empire.

As her mind raced, the inn's door burst open. Turning around, she saw Torolf, one of the town's citizens and a close friend of her father's, panting.

"Ragnar!" the man huffed. "You must come quick!"

"What is it, Torolf? What's going on?"

He took a deep breath, allowing himself to regain his focus. "Soldiers. A great many of them, coming into town. And they've prisoners in tow."

Ragnar stood up sharply, rushing to the door. Esmerelda followed but remained silent.

"What prisoners? Bandits?"

Torolf shook his head. "No. Stormcloaks. The headsman is waiting for them in the center of town. Even more worrying, it appears that Jarl Ulfric is with them."

Ulfric? Esmerelda thought. How could he have been captured?

"They mean to execute him without a trial?" Ragnar observed, anger building in his voice.

"So it would seem."

They watched as two horse-drawn carriages rumbled through Helgen. True to Torolf's words, in back of each were several Stormcloak soldiers with their hands bound. Esmerelda recognized none of them, although judging by their red and blonde manes and pale flesh similar to her own, they were all Nords. Among them, were many variant expressions; some faces burned with pride and fury at their captors, other bore looks of shame, others still appeared as though they'd given up and accepted the block.

Bringing up the rear of the procession, atop a bay horse of his own, was General Tullius, the emperor's favored puppet whom he'd sent to Skyrim to quell the Stormcloaks. A testament to his position, where his underlings sported cuirasses of leather and mail, he bore a breastplate of polished bronze which glinted in the morning light. A standard-issue Legionary's sword hung at his side. And from his shoulders, a decadent red cloak with golden trim fell, likely to shield his soft, Cyrodilic hide from the harsh winds of Skyrim. No emotion could be gleaned from his face. He wore an expression of pure stone, eyes forward, mouth clenched shut, and chin held high. She wanted nothing more than to call out and hurl insults at the arrogant pig, and she would have, if not for fear that she might have judged as a rebel sympathizer and made to share their fate.

"Get these prisoners out of the carts. Move it!" a harsh, feminine voice called. "Stormcloaks! Move up towards the block when your name is called."

Men and women began filing out of the carriages one after another and forming a large circle around the headsman's block.

"May Tsun judge and find you all worthy, kinsmen," she heard her father whisper. "And may you be praised in the Hall of Valor as a true Nord hero, lord Ulfric."

Esmerelda's heart skipped a beat at the mention of the name. Following Ragnar's stony gaze, she found the man in question. The war hero she'd been told stories of as a lass. Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Eastmarch and leader of the rebellion for Skyrim's freedom. Even gagged and bound, he was the picture of what every Nord warrior hoped to be in their prime. His cheeks, creased and worn, and lines atop his brow told of naught but rage boiling beneath his skin. A black bear pelt, a symbol of strength and power, hung over his broad shoulders. With nary a hint of fear, he marched with his head held high to face Tullius at the center of the crowd.

The idea that such an honored hero and leader was about to be snuffed out in such a cowardly way, and not in the heart of glorious battle, made her blood boil. The Imperial cowards were terrified of him, that had to be it. They feared the pull he had with the Nords, the swell in resistance which would result from his martyrdom. If Ulfric were killed the way all true warriors should be, he would inspire too much hope in the people. Out of fear, they condemned him to a pitiful death at the hands of a headsman bought with a pair of boots. It was disgusting.

A flash of crimson flew through the air as the ax struck right on its first victim's neck. The brave man had had no hesitation to meet his ancestors in Sovngarde, cursing the Empire, even with his final breath. Yet, despite all his pride, he was reduced to nothing more than a headless corpse, twitching as its lifeblood flowed from it. Some in the crowd cried out in pleasure as his head rolled away from the block. Others' shouts were less pleased. Esmerelda and her father, though, remained silent, both of them trusting that if this indeed were the gods' will, then it would come to pass whether they wished it or not.

The next man to be called forward appeared a bit different than all the rest, his clothes were a tattered mess of rags and cloth. They didn't even sport the Stormcloaks' signature blue-dyed sash. The Imperials hadn't called him by name, instead referring to him as "the Nord in rags." Was he even with the rebels or merely a victim of unfortunate circumstances?

Such thoughts were dashed from Esmerelda's mind, however, when an otherworldly howl like none she'd ever witnessed echoed through the mountains. At first, she thought she'd imagined it, until she noted others reacting to as well, looking to the skies and to each other in confusion. The roar came once more, not a minute later, it was louder this time.

Then, it was as though Oblivion had come to Tamriel again.

Before she could even turn to Ragnar, a hail of stones engulfed in flame fell to Nirn like rain in a storm. Clouds formed and flew through the skies in unnatural ways. The air around them grew thick and hot with a fog that enveloped all of Helgen. And up above, the worst of it all, and possibly the source, soared an enormous black figure.

Any doubt as to what the creature was swiftly dissipated when she heard the terrified screams of a town guard. "DRAGON!"

Chaos reigned. Everyone who had gathered to watch the execution clashed and shoved as they fled to find shelter from the drake. Stormcloaks and Imperials alike scattered out, with the legionnaires flocking to the garrison and the rebels dashing in all directions. Some of them had managed to free themselves from their bonds and were picking up weapons, though they were swiftly cut down, either by Legion arrows or dragon fire.

Ragnar grabbed Esmerelda by the shoulders and shoved her back into the inn before calling out to a crowd of men and women who had nowhere to go. "Stormcloaks! Citizens of Helgen! In here!" A few of them had not heard him, but they made their way over, nonetheless, following the rest of the group. Beside him, Torolf grasped Ragnar by the hand.

"I must find my family. My wife and son need me," he shouted above the din.

The innkeeper pulled his friend into a firm embrace. "Then go, my friend. May Talos guide and keep you."

Torolf nodded surely before running off the porch, out into the flaming streets of their home. "And you as well, Ragnar."

Whether or not he or his family survived or if he even found them, Esmerelda knew not. For that was the last she saw of the Nord.

The Laughing Bear's oaken door slammed shut with a deafening thud. The screams and sounds of battle outside were muffled, but not silent within the inn. Around them, ten or twelve people of the Stormcloaks and Helgen panted and shook with fear.

"That was a dragon! A real, live dragon!"

"The end times are upon us! Akatosh save us."

The cries of repentance and prophecy went on until Ragnar clambered up onto a table. "Everyone, people, please hear my words," he called. "Crying out in terror and cowering like babes will do us no good right now." He held a gruff and commanding tone, as that he had when training Esmerelda in the art of the sword. Like foot soldiers to their general, every person, young or old, stood silent and heeded the man. "If we are to survive this… this horror, we will need to keep cool and level heads. Chaos and bellyaching will only lead us to ruin."

An older man in the crowd whom Esmerelda did not recognize held up his hand. "But Ragnar, how are we to defend ourselves against such a beast? Dragons have not been seen in Skyrim since time immemorial."

"To be honest, I do not know if we _can_ fight it," Ragnar admitted. "Though, if we calm ourselves and think for a spell, we may yet devise a plan to survive until the big bastard leaves."

Sensing that she could be of little use in such discussion, Esmerelda left the more experienced heads to ponder while she retrieved some water and bread from the cellar. That was what she told them, at least. In reality, her withdrawal was mainly to grant herself some semblance of privacy to vent her fear. As soon as she thought she was out of earshot, the blond-haired girl collapsed to the cold, stone floor, clutching a hand to her breast. Her heart was pounding like a drum, she felt faint and sickly, and her mind raced.

_A dragon, like in the stories the bards tell. The scourges of the olden days. Shor's bones! If they have returned, then… then we are all doomed._

No. Ragnar spoke true, now was not the time for such thoughts. She needed to stay focused on her task. So long as Esmerelda kept her head on her shoulders, the gods would protect them… she hoped.

If not… If not, they had the warm fires and songs of Sovngarde to look forward to.

Remembering why she went down in the first place, she set about gathering scraps of food and drink. Filling a basket with as much as it would hold, she collected a few loaves of bread, strips of dried meat, and a couple of bottles of ale for the inn's unexpected patrons.

When she ascended the stairs once more, Esmerelda immediately wished she hadn't.

On the opposite end of the inn, the ceiling had exploded inward, fire and timber crashing to the floor. In through the massive opening, the head and neck of the enormous dragon pushed. Scales of black dripped with the blood of its most recent prey. Eyes as red as rubies glowed with a burning hatred as old as Tamriel itself as it gazed over each of the terrified Nords in the building as they screamed and ran for safety that was not there. A deep and ireful rumble sounded from within the beast's chest, and its jaw twisted into what could only be described as a sickeningly vile grin.

It was laughing at them. Laughing at the people's cries.

The maw of the drake yawned open, dozens of jagged teeth, stained red with gore and flesh of her kinsmen glistened in the firelight.

"_**Dilos nikriin.**_" The dragon howled in an indiscernible language, as an unholy light grew brighter and brighter within its throat. "_**Dir!**_"

Gouts of unnatural fire poured forth from the toothy mouth, incinerating a few of the cowering Nords instantly. Others fell to the floor, rolling in agony and clutching faces and limbs that caught the flames. Yet another monstrous cackle taunted them as the dragon shifted its weight, causing the roof of the Laughing Bear to collapse.

Ragnar and Esmerelda trudged through the inferno that was once their home, ducking, and weaving, as support beams fell, threatening to crush them. Smoke and ash filled her lungs and began coughing wildly. Try as they might, their progression to the exit halted when the loft crashed in on them.

"Back!" Ragnar hacked, holding one arm in front of his face and the other on his daughter's shoulder. "To the cellar, quickly!" She had no time to answer before he shoved her desperately in the opposite direction.

The two stumbled their way towards the staircase which led down to safety, a vicious coughing fit having taken them both. Tears formed in Esmerelda's eyes, blurring her vision so she could see naught but shadows and shapes. It was for this reason that she staggered into the bar, the massive wood slab knocking the wind from her gut. Ever concerned for her, Ragnar paused to aid her.

Such a momentary delay proved to be detrimental. As well as fatal.

In the seconds it took for her to recover from the sudden stop, another more powerful blow struck her head, knocking the Nord girl to the floor. A smoldering log lay across her back, crushing the air from her lungs, and rooting her to the ground under its weight. Cinders fell and burned her arms and shoulders. Try and struggle as she might, no amount of force could lift the burden from her back. The beam shifted, pinning her down even more and crushing her chest. Tears stung at the edges of Esmerelda's blue eyes, smoke and ash clung to her face like a shroud, restricting her vision.

Through the smog and flames, she could just make out the muscular figure of her father, laying in a heap on the ground, blood pooling around his head and staining his hair. He was unconscious, or, at least, appeared so. He made no attempt to move as yet more debris toppled onto him. Not even when the shirt on his back was set ablaze.

"Fa… ther!" she coughed weakly, the strength to speak barely coming to her. The mere whisper set her into a violent fit. "Get up… please, get up." It felt as though glass shards tore at her throat with each word.

Esmerelda's fingers clutched and dug into the charred wooden floor; every shred of energy she could muster went into her feeble attempt to pull herself free. She had to get to Ragnar, to save them both from death by dragon fire. He deserved better than to die face-down in the ashes of his own inn. However, despite all her effort, she did not possess the power she needed to escape the trap she was caught in. Tears flowed freely from her eyes, though not due to smoke. She and her father were going to die, trapped in the flaming ruins of their home.

Her sobs were broken up by coughs and wheezes as the air grew thicker and her head grew heavier. Hot, dark, blood dripped down her face from the vicious wound that opened up atop of her head. Shadows danced across her vision, and her body seemed to melt away.

Esmerelda closed her eyes one final time, and the world faded away into nothingness.

* * *

The scent of herbs and smoke filled the air and awoke Esmerelda from a deep slumber. Her vision was slightly blurred, and her head was swimming. It felt as though she were in a dream. However, the throbbing in her skull and the achiness of her muscles dashed the thought.

Once she was able to focus, she looked around, taking in her surroundings. The room was small, narrow with a door leading to the rest of the building. It was likely that she was in an inn of some sort. An idea that was supported by the warm air and many drunken and jolly voices coming from outside.

She was lying on a straw bed, covered from the neck down by heavy fur blankets. To her left was an oaken nightstand, atop which sat a washbowl, candle, and a single towel. Near the door, there stood a wardrobe used for storing patrons' belongings.

All in all, the room was nice, cozy. It was similar to the ones in the Laughing Bear.

"Oh, gods!" she gasped, sitting up suddenly. Her father! Where was her father?

The pounding in her head intensified as she struggled to think. Her rapid movement did not help matters, either. Memories of recent events flooded back into her mind like waves crashing on the Sea of Ghosts. Fire, screaming, and death filled her brain. Black wings of hatred unfurled in the sky. Esmerelda could hardly fathom it. A dragon! Just like those from the stories and songs of the bards. She had the burns and injuries to confirm that all of it had indeed happened. As terrified as she was to admit it, one of the horrors of old had attacked and destroyed her home.

As her mind settled, she was able to recall everything more clearly. Instead of mere chaotic flashes, she remembered the whole event with crystal-clear accuracy.

She wept. To Oblivion with anyone who heard. She cried until she was hoarse and dry of throat. Until the only sound or motion she made was pitiful sniffles and sobs. She would have fallen back into sleep, but for the aching in her stomach. Looking around, she could find no food in the small room, and the only water was that in the washbowl.

There came a knock on the door, bringing her back to some semblance of mental clarity. "Uhm… you may enter," she rasped.

The oaken door opened, and a petite, blonde-haired woman stepped through. "You're awake," she said plainly. "Good, I was beginning to think you dead." Esmerelda tried to speak but found that her throat was simply too dry to. The woman must have sensed this and carried on without awaiting a response. "It would have been difficult to explain a corpse in my inn to the guards."

She then proceeded to place a wooden tray on Esmerelda's lap and sat in the chair at the nightstand. The tray's contents consisted of a bowl of soup and a mug of cheap mead; plain as the meal was, it made her stomach cry out in joy when she took in the rich fumes from it. Her hands were weak, and it took considerable effort to keep steady as she slowly raised a spoonful of the stew to her lips. When she finally did manage to get into her mouth however, she let out a contented sigh, the tangy flavors of venison and vegetables warming her body as she swallowed. The drink provided was just as good, a sweetly fermented honeyed ale which quenched her fierce thirst.

Clearly, it was the first food she'd had in a good while, as it was gone within a matter of minutes. All the while, her mysterious host merely watched silently while she ate. The woman wore an entirely unreadable expression; as though she was intrigued by Esmerelda's presence, yet, at the same time, not at all. Her face was worn and weathered, showing that she had done quite some traveling in her lifetime, and her eyes were those of a hardened fighter. She watched every movement that the young Nord made with careful attention.

Only when she had emptied her bowl and tankard entirely, did the woman speak again. "I suppose you're wondering where you are and how you got here?"

"Yes."

"Well, to start, we're in Riverwood, this is the Sleeping Giant Inn, and I'm the innkeeper, Delphine. And, despite caring for you for three days, I haven't the slightest idea as to your name."

It took a moment for her to grasp all of the information that was just thrown out. Riverwood? She'd been here for three days? "Umm… my name?" she said dumbly. "Oh, it is Esmerelda Winterbrow."

Delphine nodded and hummed in understanding. "Winterbrow, huh? I take it you're kin to Ragnar Winterbrow, up in Helgen?"

Esmerelda nodded in return. "Yes, he's my father. Is he here?"

"Afraid not. In fact, you're the only person - besides the one who brought you here - that's come from that way."

Wait, someone who wasn't her father had carried her from Helgen, all the way to Riverwood? That was a day's trek at best. Which posed another question: who would have put in the effort to dig her out the rubble?

"Tell me," Delphine went on. "Do you remember coming here? I mean, I know you were unconscious when you arrived, but do you recall how you got here?"

When she shook her head no, the innkeeper let out a sigh. "Alright, well, as I said, you've been under my care for three days now. You were brought here by a man claiming to be your guardian. He paid for a week's worth of room and board and left. Haven't seen him since."

"My guardian? Did he say what his name was?" Perhaps it had been one of Ragnar's friends. Many of them knew her, though Esmerelda could not think of one that would have abandoned their own family to bring her all the way to Riverwood.

"No. He didn't leave a name, note, or even say where he was off to. Personally, I think he wanted to avoid anyone learning his identity."

"Why do you say that?"

"It was in the way he dressed. Dark robes, a hood drawn up to cover his face; the kind of attire a person would wear if they wished to remain inconspicuous," Delphine explained. "On top of that, he moved with a general sense of unease. Like he expected an attack at any minute."

No. She definitely didn't know any person of that sort. And she'd have remembered seeing him pass through town. In that case, he must have arrived just before the dragon had. So, what that it? Esmerelda was saved and owed her life to some do-gooder stranger who hadn't even stayed to see her recovery? No, there had to be more to it than that.

"What's more, no one else has come up the south road in days. That doesn't happen often. There are always Imperial caravans making their way north through here."

Esmerelda nodded somberly. She knew that, having lived in the Imperial-controlled town all her life.

"Just what happened in Helgen to make all that stop?" Delphine asked. "Bandits? Stormcloak takeover? Damn magical plague, what?"

The young girl shuddered as she remembered the dark serpent yet again. Its iron scales as black as night. Eyes red with fury. Gouts of unholy fire pouring from its maw. There was no way of knowing if anyone else was able to survive and spread the word. But would this woman, who had no idea who she was, even listen to her? Would she just assume her mad and dismiss the thought of a dragon attacking Helgen?

Well, there was only one way to know for sure.

"It was a... dragon. A dragon razed Helgen to the ground," Esmerelda half-whispered.

Silence fell upon the room as her words hung in the air. Delphine's face became hard as stone and completely unreadable. It was all Esmerelda could do to not shrink back against the wall, for fear the innkeeper might attack her - as preposterous as it sounded.

Finally, the older woman spoke. "If it weren't for the nature of your injuries - the burns and such - I'd say you'd lost your head." Such was to be expected. "But, given the events of the past few days, I'm inclined to believe you."

Somehow, she didn't feel as though the Breton was finished. "So, what happens now?"

"Now, you're going to get some rest. I can't in good conscience send a young girl out into the night to torn apart by wolves." Delphine stood up from the chair and made her way to the door. Before exiting, she turned to face her. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow, if you're well enough, I suppose you can be on your way."

And with that, she was gone, leaving Esmerelda alone with more questions than answers. How had her mysterious savior known where to find her? Had anyone else managed to escape the carnage at Helgen? Had her father-?

No. She couldn't think about that now. She had to focus on healing. Come morning, she would head home, whether Delphine agreed or not. She would scour the remains of Helgen for something, anything that shed some light on the events of the past few days.

One thing was for sure; Esmerelda had wished for more in her life. By the Nine, her wish had been granted.

* * *

**A/N: And there we have it! The first chapter in a story I've been working on for about a year now. Updates will be a bit on the slower side, as school just started back up for me, and I don't have a whole lot of time. I'm also working on a few other fics right now. But either way, I hope you enjoyed chapter 1. Skyrim is one of my favorite games ever and I'm absolutely stoked to be writing this.**


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